Scarlet Bandit

  For Misty Brown, today was a good day.
  Her 'Hawk was still running good, plus it had a half-tank.  She had a job now, one that promised plenty of coin if it panned out.  And to top it off, she was still alive.  Here on the new Urth, that was no small feat.  Not since the war had ended.
  She pulled into the town of Oasis, where the job would take place.  Hopefully she'd find what she was looking for here...well, not everything she was really looking for, but it would still be another big poke in his eye.
  Two buildings dominated Oasis.  One, going from the steeple she saw on the roof, was a church, while the other seemed to serve as a bank, store and bar all in one whack.  Misty parked outside this last building and went inside, drawing her 12 mm revolver as she did.
  "Hands up, heads down!" she cried as she entered, firing a shot into the ceiling.  Two of the building's patrons tried to rush her, but stopped when they saw the size of her handgun.
  "You wanna be lookin' at your bellies very intently," Misty continued.  "I see so much as one set of eyes on me, carnage will ensue."  She swung her aim at the old man behind the counter.  "The safe.  Where is it?" she asked.
  "Y-y-you're a soldier, ain'tcha?" asked the old man, in a reasonable tone.  "Fought in the Globe War?"
  "War's long done," said Misty.  "Now where's the damned safe?"
  This's just a crop town, sweetie," the old man said, in the same tone as before.  "Don't think you'll find-"
  In a tight voice, Misty told the old man to shut up and make her rich.  With that, the old man obediently got up from his seat and walked to the back of the building, Misty hot on his heels.  He opened the safe, and Misty's killing itch just got a lot harder not to scratch.  Inside the safe were three low-GP bills and some scattered coins.
  Misty was about to cut and run when she noticed something: The safe's internal dimensions-in paricular, the bottom-didn't quite match up to the external.  False bottom.  Had to be.
  She turned to the old man, asking in a reasonable tone, "How do I open the false bottom?"
  The old man grimly pressed on the back of the safe, pulling the bottom up as he did so.  Underneath the false bottom were bags of GP.  And plenty of them, all bearing Garoman's emblem.
  Misty pulled up the bags, suddenly tossing them to the old man.
  "Distribute the money as evenly as you can amongst the people," she directed him.  "And tell anyone who asks that the Scarlet Bandit told you to."
  The old man was flabbergasted.  He stood there gaping like a fish out of water.
  "It won't get done if you don't do it," said Misty, in a more pointed voice.
  The old man suddenly grinned, grabbing as many bank bags as he could carry.
  "Everyone!" he cried as he ran out.  "Christmas has come early, compliments of the Scarlet Bandit!"

  It was a jubilant crowd walking out of the bank, following Misty.
  "We all thank you for this generous gift," said one of the patrons.  "Anything we can do in return?"
  "Yeah," said Misty, with a smile.  "Tell Garoman for me, the reward on my head is an insult.  Only 1,000 GP?  It's not nearly high enough!"
  "You'll need traveling money, too," said a woman at the back of the crowd.  "I say we take up a collection for her!"
  This suggestion met with agreement from everyone, and a hat was immediately passed around.  In the end, Misty ended up with an extra 750 GP.  She pocketed the money, waved a thanks, fired up her Firehawk, and drove off.

  For Michael Garoman, today was bad, to say the least.
  The Scarlet Bandit had hit another of his money caches, this time dividing up another 50,000 GP amongst the residents of the town.  He was furious!  Yet even as his mind raged, it couldn't help but grope with the question of why she never kept any of the money.  He wondered why she always gave it away.
  Absentmidedly, he reached up and touched the scar that stretched from the lower left corner of his forehead up into his hairline.
  "How much has she taken, total?" he asked his secretary, who was standing nearby.
  "This 'Scarlet Bandit' has taken at least one million GP in the past two lunars, or goods and currency totaling to that amount." the secretary stated.  "But she gives most of what she steals to the people, so nobody will pursue her for it.  In fact, I'd go as far as saying they love her for it."
  "I realize that, but why?" asked Garoman.

Misty was playing in her daddy's front yard on that day, which would be forever etched in her memory.  She'd been about six, ready to celebrate her seventh birthday the next day.  She'd heard the long black car pull up, and ran to her Daddy, who had told her to go play.  She'd pretended to play, but had listened in on their conversation.
  "Mr. Garoman, what can I do for you today?"
  "I've come for my pistol.  I want to give you 150 GP for it."
  "Only 150?! No.  With parts and labor, it must be worth five times that much!"
  Misty had turned to leave when a loud BANG! sounded behind her.  She'd whirled around to find her Daddy, lying on the ground in a pool of his blood.  Angrily, she took up the gun at his belt and fired at Garoman, but did little more than leave a nasty cut on his forehead.  With that, she ran away amidst a hail of .44 Magnum fire, into the forest, crying her eyes out...

  Misty bolted upright, snapping to awakeness in an instant.  Then she roughly massaged the side of her head.
  "Get outta there, you stupid dream..." she grumbled.  She checked her watch.  It lacked about an hour to dawn, so she rolled up her bedroll, smothered the fire and pulled out her penlight.  The next town was Paradise, which was a city, really.  Maybe some jobs, too.  She occasionally did some work for Ashlyn Graham, who was a minor player in the City Elders and ran the Sunrise and Paradise Tap cargo-coachway.
  She checked her ammo count, which was about two hundred rounds of ammo and seven speedloaders.  With that, she holstered her 12 mm H&H Rapier, got on the 'Hawk, and fired it up.  Paradise lay north of where she was, some 50 miles away.  Oh well, no one got paid to stand still.

  "Hello, Misty," said Ashlyn, from behind her desk.  "Long time no see."
  Misty extended her hand with a grin.
  "So whatcha got for me today?" she asked.
  Ashlyn pulled out a map of the Southern Territories, pointing to Paradise City. 
  "This is where we are, and where a shipment is taking off.  The shipment contains eco-"
  "Eco?" asked Misty.  "What's that?"
  "The wave of the future, as far as fuel goes.  One pound of eco can take you as far as Eastern Territories and some change.  Anyway, this shipment is HUGE.  Worth about 250,000 GP to me.  Plus, it's for a Garoman business, so there's some incentive for you.  I'll give you the lion's share of the take, too."
  Misty arched an eyebrow.
  "How much IS 'the lion's share'?" she asked.
  "Sixty."
  "Sixty?  My end has gotta be at least seventy-five."
  "Seventy-five?!"  Ashlyn looked shocked.  "My pale, hairless ass it's seventy-five!"
  Misty shut her eyes tightly and shook her head violently, as though to force that image from her head.
  "It is as of now," she said, when she finished.  "Come on, how long we been doing business?"
  Ashlyn sighed with resignation.
  "All right, but on the condition that no one gets killed.  I hear of so much as one dead body, I claim the whole thing.  Remember, Garoman's the one you want."
  "Gotcha," said Misty, with a casual shrug of the shoulder.  "By the by, my Rapier will be pretty inadequate for this job.  It only holds six 12mm rounds at a time.  Do you have something with...a little more 'oomph'?"
  Ashlyn smiled, and Misty could just see the gears turning in her head.
  "Let me go to my armory," she replied.  She got up from behind the desk, turned, and went over to her gun-shelf.  Ashlyn pulled a lever shotgun from the shelf, grabbed a box of shells, and handed the whole thing to Misty.
  "12-gauge Thunderkiss '65," she remarked.  "Stock's been cut off, with a Padder in the barrel, so you can hipshoot easy, like pointing your finger.  And the shells are Shredders, so you'll have to get within ten feet at least to use them."
  Misty nodded.  Shredders were nasty business if you got caught on their business end.  They were loaded with huge metal shrapnel chunks, and anything within a ten foot radius was inflicted with a bad case of dead.
  "So where will I be meeting this cargo-coach?" she asked.
  "The cargo-coach will be on Old Southern Highway, about 25 miles outside of Paradise, around 2:30 p.m. tomorrow.  That's the best spot to catch it, as you'll be out of both Paradise and Richport's jurisdictions for a few minutes.  Legally, no one can catch you for about ten minutes.  But remember, you don't kill anyone."

  "You are sure you want her...dead?"
  "She's stolen from my pocket.  Multiple times," replied Garoman.  "Unfortunately, she gives most of what she steals from me to the poor, so no one ever tries to bring her in.  I figured, for a special problem, hire special help.  That's why I came to you, Mr. Feroux.  You've been trained in the necessary skills I need, as she has."  He pulled a bag out of his pocket, tossing it to Feroux.  "That bag contains eco crystals.  That stuff will fetch a killing, as I've discovered a vein of it near Paradise City.  Wave of the future, far as alternative fuels go.  The only thing standing in my way is the Scarlet Bandit.  And I'll pay you 3000 GP for her dead body. I don't want her alive."
  Feroux's face betrayed no emotion, but inwardly, he was worried.  If the Scarlet Bandit was really as devious and cunning as he'd been led to believe, he'd have to hunt her in secret.  It was usually hard enough to hunt criminals on even terms, but when someone was desperate, they usually would do anything and everything not to get caught.  He pulled a semiautomatic pistol, a .40 Kimson P47, out of its holster on his right thigh, and began twirling it.
  "Are you sure about this?  You could get her alive, find out why she's such a thorn in your side," said Feroux.
  "I don't want to learn about her, I want her out of my life!" snapped Garoman.  He checked his temper, then continued in a more reasonable tone, "I'm going to be Governor of the Southern Territories next year, more than likely.  It would not look good on my campaign if I couldn't stop one woman from robbing me blind."
  Feroux didn't smile.  Killing anyone was nasty business, criminal or not, but even old soldiers had to eat.
  "Then you must consider it done." he said.
  Garoman pulled another bag out of his pocket, which contained, at a touch, the jingle of GP.
  "Half," he explained.  "The other half when the job gets finished."

  The next day, Misty was waiting in the designated spot for the cargo-coach.  She loaded the last round into the Thunderkiss and slid it into the saddlebag of the Firehawk.  She was about to pull out a protein bar and have lunch when the oily click of a .40 Kimson behind her head focused her thoughts.
  She turned around to see a tall, dark man aiming the gun at her.
  "Throw the Rapier to the ground," said the man.
  Misty thought about it for a second, then she unholstered her six-gun and tossed it down.
  "I'm supposed to kill you, miss," said the man.  "But I feel generous today.  Where do you want it, front or back?"
  Misty shrugged.
  "It makes no difference to me," she said nonchalantly.
  "The front then," said the man, firing at Misty's chest.  The impact of the shot sent Misty onto her back.  She closed her eyes and lay still.
  The man holstered his Kimson, bent down, and reached for Misty's body when Misty's eyes snapped open.  She grabbed his wrist, leapt to her feet, and twisted his right arm behind his back.
  "We're gonna play twenty questions, now," she said calmly.  "Depending on your answers, you may walk away with a gun hand, or not.  Now, who are you?"
  The man hesitated.
  Misty didn't, twisting a little harder.
  The man grunted in pain, then said, "Feroux.  Name's Will Feroux."
  Misty didn't relieve the pressure.
  "Who sent you?" she asked, in a calm voice.
  "Garoman.  He said that he wanted your dead body, and he's paying me 3000 GP for your carcass!"
  Garoman.  Now Misty had accomplished one goal, getting his attention.
  "Where is he now?" she asked.
  "Nggh..." grunted Feroux, then continued, "He's currently living in a house on Dirwen Mountain, up near the summit.  But it's guarded by thirty armed men who would just as soon shoot you as look at you."
  "I have a plan for getting in, and it involves you.  But first the cargo-coach."
  "You are aware," said Feroux, "that the whole eco-shipment was a lie to get you out here in the middle of nowhere so I could kill you?"
  Misty looked unsurprised.
  "That figures," she said.  "So there is no cargo-coach?"
  Feroux shook his head.
  "That was the bait," he remaked.  "Mr. Garoman knew you'd come if the shipment had his name on it, and once we slid a little to Ms. Graham's pocket, she came into the game willingly."
  "I thought she agreed a little readily to my cut of seventy-five," Misty mused.  She let go of Feroux, who shook his arm out vigorously.  "So how much is Garoman paying for my carcass?"
  "3000 GP." replied Feroux.  "I don't suppose you'd offer more, would you?" he added, hesitantly.
  "If I did have it, I'd offer more.  I just have enough to cover traveling expenses."
  "I see," said Feroux.  "So why do you hate Mr. Garoman so much?"
  "He killed my father," explained Misty.  "Dad was a great gunsmith.  When Garoman came to his shop, requesting a custom job, Dad did it.  He slaved two months before he considered it finished.  An H&H 12mm Rapier."  She picked up her gun from the ground.  "This one," she added, handing the gun to Feroux.
  Feroux took the gun, examining it carefully.
  "Impressive," he said.  "I've never seen its kindred."
  "Well," Misty continued, after taking the gun back, "Garoman returned and asked for it, but at 20% of his promised price.  He and Dad got into an argument, and Garoman shot Dad in the heart.  I picked up the gun and tried to kill him, but I just grazed his forehead, leaving a nasty scar."
  "How old were you?" asked Feroux.
  "I was six.  When I became of age, I joined the Globe War-that was about eleven years later.  I became a Lionheart."  She rolled her right shirt sleeve up, revealing a tattoo.  A stylized lion's head flowed down into a cross, and underneath in stylized print were the words, "Start no fight without reason, end no fight without honor."
  Feroux's eyes went wide.  Suddenly he rolled his right shirt sleeve up.  The same tattoo was there for all to see.
  Misty smiled.
  "Okay, now that we know each other, I guess you should kill me, huh?" she shrugged.
  "I wouldn't kill a fellow Lionheart," said Feroux.  He extended a hand, which Misty shook gladly.
  "In fact," he continued, "I have a plan to get that bastard Garoman in the open.  Are you wearing a Spectra vest under your shirt?"
  Misty's smile got wider.  Good old Lionheart training.
  "That's right," she said.  "Whatcha thinkin'?
  "We can get Garoman out in the open, with a gunfight.  You versus me.  You spread the word that you want to meet with me tomorrow, Paradise's main street, around noon.  That way, neither of us have the sun-to-the-back advantage.  I'll pretend to kill you, and you play dead.  But don't you spoil the surprise until I tell you to."
  Misty chuckled, then the smile faded from her face.
  "You're sure he'll come and witness this?" she asked.
  "He was pretty clear that he wanted you dead, not alive.  Those who hire me, they know I'm a Lionheart.  They'll expect me to kill you in a gunfight."
  "Okay," said Misty.  "But first we need to see Ashlyn.  I want to ask her a few questions..."

  Ashlyn's office was guarded by two armed men, each armed with 12mm Rapiers and carrying Thunderkiss shotguns.  Feroux guessed from the expressions that each were fairly new to the Lawman trade, going from the way they held the shotguns.  The men held the guns nervously, as though they'd simply been given a crash course in using them and let it go at that.
  "All right, Misty," he whispered, "I'll take out the armed guards.  There's probably more inside, so keep that lever-action ready."
  "Gotcha," said Misty, then quietly snuck to where they'd set up the ladder on the roof of the Aphrodite saloon.  She climbed down, and Feroux pulled up his .22-43 rifle.  The guards were probably wearing body armor, but this small a round, at this powder load, they might as well be naked for all the good it would do.  He glanced at the scope's built-in rangefinder, which read 353 yards.  Feroux adjusted sights for wind and the target movement, then squeezed the trigger.  A few milliseconds later, the left guard's back exploded in a spray of red, decorating the wall behind him.  The right guard dropped the Thunderkiss he was holding, quickly and frantically looking around for the shooter.  Feroux adjusted his aim slightly, then spiked the second guard.  He quickly dropped the rifle, running back to the ladder, only to meet four more guards, all of whom were carrying  Kimson .45-40 assault rifles.
  His last conscious thought was, "Get him for me, Misty!"

  Misty found Ashlyn alone and unguarded, enjoying-or maybe steadying her nerves-with a bit of synthehol.
  "Why, Ashlyn?" was all she asked.
  "Business hasn't been too good for the cargo-coachway," replied Ashlyn.  "I've been losing money-"
  "So you decided that a friend dying could save your business?" asked Misty incredulously.
  "There's a saying amongst the rich, 'There are no friends in business,'" replied Ashlyn.  "The fat reward Garoman offered me-30,000 GP-would keep me going for a little while longer, and the shipping deal he offered for his eco would have helped me make a killing.  All I had to do was give him you."
  Misty nodded.
  "So, you sold me out to that rat bastard Garoman.  For rather more than thirty pieces of silver, I might add." she snapped.  She pulled the Thunderkiss from her back, leveling it at Ashlyn's chest.
  "I should kill you now, you greedy bitch!" Misty cried.
  "You're a Lionheart, remember?" said Ashlyn calmly, as though she were discussing the weather.  "You won't kill me in cold blood."
  Misty grunted in anger and vexation.  Ashlyn was right.  God knew she wanted to kill Ashlyn, so badly she could taste it-and it tasted bitter as wormwood-but the oath that had been literally drilled into her since boot camp wouldn't let her.
  Just then, the door burst open, and four men came in, armed with .45-40 assault rifles.  All aiming at Misty.
  "Throw down your guns!" said Ashlyn.
  Misty begrudgingly complied, shooting Ashlyn a slow burn with her eyes.

  Misty was sitting and stewing in the town jail.  The cot she sat on was dingy and dirty, and the temperature in the cell recalled recipes needing a quick oven.  Just then, the jailer came around to her cell.
  "Someone to see ya, honey," he said.  "Don't keep him too long."
  Following the jailer was the man Misty hated with every breath she took.
  "Well, well, well," said Garoman, with no small amount of ego in his voice.  "If it isn't the woman who's been robbing me blind.  The Scarlet Bandit."
  "And look at you," shot back Misty.  "All fancy and legit now."
  "You've become a bit of a thorn in my side," said Garoman.  "But I'm here to tell you that you'll be tried by your peers in a fair proceeding."
  "And butter wouldn't melt in your mouth," snarled Misty.
  "I do have one question, though: Why me?" asked Garoman.
  "Think back about sixteen years," said Misty.  "The day you got that scar on your forehead.  A customized 12mm Rapier.  A man shot through the heart.  Any of this sound familiar?"
  Garoman's eyes went wide.
  "Y-you're that little girl?!" he cried.
  "Yes, I am.  And one way or another, I'll pay you back!"
  Garoman laughed sadistically.
  "You're getting yours tomorrow, little girl," he stated, in an amused voice.  Then. he turned around and left, the echo of his laughter filling the cells.  Misty let him laugh.  She wouldn't stay here long, just till night.  Then she would get the last laugh.  Wait and see.

  Misty waited patiently until she heard snoring from the front office of the jail.  Waiting was no problem.  It was a skill all Lionhearts had had to learn, and learn well.  When she finally heard the Lawman sawing logs, she rammed her fingers down her throat until she vomited, then searched through the vomit until she'd found what she was looking for: a lockpick she'd swallowed, like she did every few days.  She grabbed the lockpick, ignoring the vomit stench, and jimmied the cell's lock open.
  Sneaking with the stealth of years of practice, Misty made her way to the armory.  She found and loaded her Rapier, then selected a Thunderkiss '65, loaded it, and slung it across her back. 
  Just then, she heard someone say "Hist!" behind her, in another cell.  Misty turned around to see a small man in blue.
  "Get me out of here, Scarlet Bandit!" he whispered.
  "And why should I help you?" asked Misty.
  "Because I know your goal.  To kill Michael Garoman.  I can help you attain it."
  Misty's eyebrow arched slightly.
  "How?" she asked.
  "I was one of his bodyguards, till I got caught embezzeling.  I have a mental map of his estate.  I can guide you to him, but in return, I need 150,000 GP.  I know where he hides his personal GP stash, so once he's dead, I'll get it for myself."
  "What makes you so sure I don't want half?" asked Misty.
  "There's more than what I want in that stash, Miss Bandit.  You're welcome to the rest, if you want it."
  "What's your name?" asked Misty, interested now.
  Joe.  Joe Kiltman," replied the man in blue.
  Misty took her lockpick, unlocked his cell, and offered a hand to Joe, who gladly shook it.
  "Name's Misty Brown," she said.  "What sort of weapon do you like, Joe?"
  "In the armory, there's an Elariel P228, chambered for .45-40.  That one's mine.  I'll get it."
  Misty and Joe tiptoed back to the armory, opened the door, got the Elariel, and handed it to Joe."
  "I had a motorcycle, a Firehawk," said Misty.  "Do you know if it's still out there?"
  "I seem to remember it being out there," said Joe.  "Was the tank OD Green?"
  "Yeah," replied Misty.
  "OK," said Joe.  "Let's go to Dirwen Mountain!"